Natasha Trethewey

But Sunday mornings are hers--church clothes starchedand hanging, a record spinningon the console, the whole housedancing. She raises the shades,washes the rooms in light,buckets of water, Octagon soap.

Cleanliness is next to godliness ...

Windows and doors flung wide,curtains two-steppingforward and back, neck bonesbumping in the pot, a choirof clothes clapping on the line.

Nearer my God to Thee ...

She beats time on the rugs,blows dust from the broomlike dandelion spores, each onea wish for something better.